


Hoot and Howl

by Losille



Series: Seasons of Magic [2]
Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Magic, Magical Realism, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23696392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Losille/pseuds/Losille
Summary: Chris goes on a camping trip to calm his noisy anxiety, but it ends up leading him into his own messed up fairytale. When he said he wanted to be a Disney prince as a boy, this was absolutely not what he meant. Especially considering that the princess is also, well... about that...(Second book in the Seasons of Magic series - Home was #1)
Relationships: Chris Evans (Actor) & Original Character(s), Chris Evans (Actor) & Original Female Character(s), Chris Evans (Actor)/Original Character(s), Chris Evans (Actor)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Seasons of Magic [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706530
Comments: 31
Kudos: 41





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second story in the Seasons of Magic series, so the same “world” as Home is set in. I will continue Home, but this needed to get out. Also, it has obviously been a very long time since I’ve updated and/or written anything of great substance, so please be kind. That said, I do appreciate any concrit if you have it. You do NOT need to read Home to understand this story.
> 
> Also a quick message to my readers who are coming back: welcome back! I appreciate you all so much. I know it's been a long, long time since I've updated. A lot has happened in 2 years (for one, I am now teaching full time, and teaching eats all of your extra time). A lot is still happening. But this unprecedented time at home has given me an opportunity to try to write again. Enjoy!

**Prologue**

She should be used to it after all these years, doing this work: the electronic beep of various telemetry monitors and the subtle drone of whirring medical machines, just audible over the muffled cries of grief echoing through the main corridor of the second-floor hospice ward. Habituation and expectation, however, did nothing to ease the knotted nerves in her belly as she quietly entered yet another tiny gray room to cross off the name of the next person on her list.

This gray room, like all the rest, was designed to be bland, but peaceful. Nothing too dramatic or provoking for times like this. Calming, relaxing. To her, it was a drab little cell that she wouldn’t want to be caught dead in, literally or figuratively. Why suffer all through life to land in a place like this and depart it all while staring at a gray wall with a reproduced painting of a meadow in a peach-and-mint-green eighties palette? _Ugh._ It seemed like a waste, but the families–the living–they preferred it, for some reason.

The family with the tear-stained faces finally looked up at her intrusion, shoulders tense as though they expected the Reaper himself to be there with his billowing black robes and glinting scythe. When they recognized the scrubs with the hospice’s logo and the nametag announcing her as a volunteer, they immediately relaxed with a collective guttering sigh. 

They were mistaken to relax so quickly.

Unfortunately, Death didn’t always ride a pale horse. Sometimes, she showed up in an economical and environmentally conscious Prius and wore powder blue hospital scrubs with a volunteer badge.

And her scythe? Well, that was something else altogether…


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The speeding truck, rusted out and sputtering, navigated over a narrow gravel driveway and through dense pine forest for a quarter mile off the main highway until the path opened into a clearing. Inside the clearing was a simple country farmhouse with hunter green shutters and aged white siding, sedate and quiet, but for faint white smoke curling out of a tall stone chimney. A vibrant forest behind the house was aflame in brilliant autumnal colors, cloaking the mountain in shades of kingly red and gold as it reached into a stormy sky.

Chris only wished he could truly appreciate nature’s beauty, rhapsodize on it, photograph it, consider how, even when it seemed like the world was going to shit, there was still… _this._ But he couldn’t; rather, he kept his eyes keenly affixed on the narrow drive to assure that he and his passenger reached their destination in relative safety.

 _Relative_ , being the operative word.

As though to test him, the truck bounced over a particularly uneven patch of gravel. The rear swerved and his heart jumped to his throat, but he was able to right the vehicle with a steady shift of the steering wheel and a determined clamp of teeth on his lower lip. Only belatedly did he remind himself to breathe, to calm the heart once again beating a heavy tattoo in his chest.

Chris inhaled deeply, twice, and instantly regretted it. The cabin reeked of wet dog and man, mud, and the metallic tang of blood. His stomach clenched. Giving in, he took his eyes off the road for just a moment to glance at his companion, who had curled up on the truck’s bench seat beside him. The red and blue plaid flannel he used to wrap Dodger’s mangled paw had soaked through and now just looked dark brown.

“Just a few more seconds, buddy,” he murmured, more to hear himself speak, to reassure _himself_ , to connect again with the world instead of spiraling into another panic attack. He’d been doing so well avoiding them recently, too. “We’re almost there.”

Chris hadn’t seen _it_ happen, really, the incident that led them to this enchanting farmhouse with the green shutters. They’d been out on the river, he and Dodger, two days into a two-week solo camping sabbatical. Dodger skipped between stones and barked at random creatures scurrying around the banks of the river while Chris adjusted the nylon fishing line on his pole, attempting to catch dinner. Then he heard a yelp and a splash; when his eyes darted in the direction of the sound, Dodger was already struggling to swim in the swift river current.

Chris jumped into the icy river immediately, without considering the toll it could take on his unprepared body—the river was just a few feet deep, but it was certainly deep enough and cold enough to freeze every vital organ for a split second and prolong the rescue of his precious friend.

Fortunately, he’d plucked the pup out of the rushing water by the collar just before Dodger was out of reach, and then trudged slowly back to the embankment through thick muddy riverbed, thinking all was fine now and Dodger simply needed to dry off. Other than struggling in the current, it wasn’t a rare occurrence that Dodger’s natural mischief led him to fall in a body of water—be it natural or manmade, like the swimming pool back in LA. Dodger would fall in, get out, Chris would dry him off and then the dog would go lay down, the natural consequence having fully chastised him for being silly.

But this wasn’t like that at all. Only when they made it back to dry land did Chris notice the blood dripping freely from the canine’s front paw, made all the worse from the water saturating his fur. Somehow, Chris had kept it together long enough to rip a piece of his flannel shirt off and tightly tourniquet Dodger’s leg; never mind that he had a stack of towels and blankets in a duffel bag a few feet away, which might have been useful—also—to warm a shivering, scared animal.

Then the anxiety hit him, literally knocked him on his own ass, as he scrambled through his fishing tackle box for the emergency burner phone. The one that could dial out for emergency services and receive calls from his mom, because his mom was the only one with the number.

The phone still had a charge and the old crappy mobile internet had come through for him when he searched for the closest veterinarian, even all the way out in the middle of the Massachusetts wilderness. He’d practically thrown Dodger into the truck and sped away from the campsite, with the fishing line still dangling in the river. 

Now that he thought about it, or at least, now that the adrenaline had subsided a bit, he realized the mistake he made. If he even made it back to camp tonight, that pole would probably be long gone. And so was any chance of eating because it would be too dark to do any fishing with the other poles he brought with him. The energy bars and backup rations he packed would only go so far to fill his man-sized stomach—and they were supposed to be provisions to last two weeks. He didn’t want to go back into civilization for at least that long.

Chris grumbled. This was why he didn’t have kids—he could barely handle his _dog’s_ injuries, let alone anything worse. How would he ever react with an actual human child? Leave another fishing pole in the river? Or, if they _were_ at home, leave the stove on and burn an entire house down?

The thought was absurd!

Him having children of his own was a ridiculous idea. He absolutely was _not_ qualified. The fact that his girlfriend was pressuring him to commit to that—to finally settle down—only made matters worse. There was nothing he wanted more in the world than to settle down to have a family, but the other person in the relationship had to understand the difference between wanting something and knowing one’s personal limitations. His level of anxiety, despite all the work he had done learning to manage it over the years, was not at the point where he could contemplate children.

This trauma was a perfect example. _Fuck._ He probably wasn’t even qualified to have a fur child, now that he thought about. He certainly didn’t feel like he was worthy of the companionship of this perfect spirit lying beside him and whimpering in pain because he hadn’t been paying attention.

He glanced at Dodger again, but the dog didn’t even pick his head up this time, so he reached out to place a reassuring hand on his back. They’d get to the vet, and everything would be fine. It _had_ to be. He couldn’t lose him.

A few seconds later, Chris pulled into a parking spot alongside a tiny Toyota Prius, which he found completely incongruous to the rustic storybook farmhouse sitting before it. These places were made for old beaters like his, or something with a little more substance—even if he did appreciate the owner’s care for the environment.

His old truck creaked to a stop, the noisy clunking machine rattling until it finally fell silent a few seconds later. Dodger whined again and tried to stand on his bad paw, only to slide back down the vinyl seat with the wet shirt rag. He scooped the dog into his arms and pressed his lips to the dog’s head—a completely illogical thing to do at a time like this because it clearly wasn’t going to make Dodger’s paw heal instantly, but it made Chris feel better—and bound up the three front steps toward the second door on the other end of the large porch with the small plaque that read “Dr. Bird, DVM.”

Grateful the door had been left partially ajar, he nudged his shoulder against it and stepped into a room that looked like any other doctor’s waiting room—human or animal—except for the fact that he was the only person staring at a space he wished were filled with a reception desk with a receptionist. Someone… anyone… who could help Dodger. _Immediately._ All he found were worn vinyl-cushioned benches, magazines piled on an end table, and lamps glowing soft yellow light into the four corners of wood-paneled walls.

There was also another door, this one presumably leading further into the house, but it remained firmly shut.

His anxiety clawed back up his throat and began to strangle him—should he have instead gone to the other vet in the other direction, though another half hour away? Had Dodger lost too much blood? The dog seemed limp in his arms. Was it… was it too late? Should he just barge in through the other door to look for help?

Chris opened his mouth to yell, but his entreaty died on his lips when the closed door creaked open. A massive cat with a fluffy white coat loped into the room, clearly unphased with the seriousness of the situation. He frowned at the odd creature as it stopped just in front of him, looked up and slowly blinked large jade-green eyes. The proximity of the feline made him uneasy; not only was Dodger uncaring of an animal that he would have otherwise had a real problem with staring up at them, but Chris felt the cat was assessing them frankly, and not in any typical cat-like way.

The cat made a soft chittering sound, as though trying to communicate with him. Chris’ frown deepened. This was getting them nowhere, fast. And this cat gave off some really fucking weird vibes. And if he weren’t mistaken, it felt like the animal was rolling its eyes in disgust that he, a human, had not been able to understand Cat.

Was this a dream? Was he hallucinating this? More importantly, what kind of medical professional allowed a cat to be the welcome committee to a place of business, never mind that it was a veterinarian’s office?

The cat “receptionist” blinked again and sat down heavily, flicking its long tail before emitting a rumbling and, if Chris were being honest, perturbed meow. It echoed in the barren room, but the sound was finally enough to pique Dodger’s interest. The dog turned his head quizzically with perked ears.

Dodger yipped twice at the animal but didn’t struggle like he wanted to get down and chase the cat. In response, as though _they_ —the dog and the cat—had somehow communicated the problem to each other, the cat stood back up and trotted back to the door and disappeared.

Chris tried to speak again; a blur of feathers stopped him this time as a large grey bird soared into the room and landed on a perch affixed to the opposite wall. He’d not noticed the protrusion there, as it was made of the same wood as the paneling and blended in with the walls.

The grey parrot with crimson tail feathers turned to look at him, clucking a few times then saying in a strange parrot voice, “Just a minute! Just a minute!”

Chris considered turning around and leaving. This was too strange, and his canine companion was too precious to be dealing with a doctor who didn’t have a proper staff and left the care up to a weird fluffball cat and a parrot. When he turned toward the door, the bird suddenly sounded like a _Star Wars_ droid, booping and beeping and trilling like R2D2, then changed to words. “Don’t go! Don’t g—”

“I’m so sorry!” A new voice—a feminine one, smooth and alto—broke into his periphery. “I was in the middle of something that couldn’t be put down.”

He whipped around to come face-to-face with a blessedly human figure standing before him, all wind-tousled jet hair and large obsidian eyes. Concern etched an otherwise blemish-free face of smooth tawny skin. She was probably the most beautiful woman he’d ever beheld, but that notion, too, was immediately forgotten like the beauty of the landscape outside, in favor of the creature in his arms.

“My dog, he—” Chris began, snapping out of his momentary trance.

She swooped into action, flicking her eyes down to Dodger. She hummed and reached for him. “Let me take him back and have a look.”

“Can’t I go back?” he asked, reluctantly handing Dodger over.

She cradled the dog to her chest; Dodger didn’t struggle as she spoke softly. “It’ll be okay, Dodger.”

“You look as white as a ghost,” she said then, her voice now firm. “You need to sit down and calm down. You’re not going to be any help to your dog _or_ to me if you’re freaking us both out during an exam. Let me look at the injury and stop any active bleeding. Then we’ll talk.”

And with that, she was gone so quickly he could have sworn she had kicked up a cloud of dust in her wake. However, he did what she’d instructed and collapsed onto one of the old benches, then covered his face with his hands and prayed. He didn’t do a lot of it these days, preferring other forms of soul searching, but he did say a few silent words. Dodger _needed_ to be okay. He couldn’t lose this one constant in his hectic, always changing life. At least not until the dog had lived a long, fulfilled life at his side.

If only his anxiety would let him think positively.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for being awesome with the first chapter back. Enjoy this one. The OFC’s name is pronounced Nay-shaw.

**Chapter 2**

Nascha stood over the bubbling concoction in her cauldron, closing her eyes to the steam rising and curling pleasantly around her chin and cheeks. She’d spent too much time outside in the forest last night, and her skin still felt tight from the cold weather. The soothing warmth was just what her body needed, though it was not enough to rejuvenate the stores of energy she had depleted during the exercise. She only hoped she could make it until the end of the month and her next scheduled volunteer visit to Boston. Falling off the wagon now was not an option. Not without a suitable replacement for her extremely specific needs.

A disgusted teenaged voice filled Nascha’s head then, drowning out her nagging thoughts. _I hope you know I hate when you make that, Nae._

Nascha chuckled and glanced back at the fluffy feline lounging on the cat tree across the kitchen. The cat momentarily paused from painstakingly grooming her luxurious white fur—long enough to glare in accusation at the chuckling person.

 _It smells like dog breath_ , the voice continued.

“Well, yours smells like old tuna,” Nascha reminded, “so you have no place to talk.”

 _Ugh,_ _whatever._

Ash loved her bored and disgusted teenaged one-liners. The cat could give any teenaged human a run for their money in that department, but there were certainly times when Nascha wished other people could hear it, too, just to understand the pain associated with listening to it all the time. Not that anyone would ever believe what they were hearing. They were more likely to check themselves into an institution than believe that it was possible for a cat to talk back to them. But cats _did_ talk back. All animals did. They understood human languages just fine. The trouble was that Great Spirit had taken away the ability for the animals to respond in kind because of a terrible indiscretion long, long ago.

Or so the story went.

It didn’t really matter to her, because she still heard it. She heard _all_ of it. The squirrels, the birds, the lizards and snakes… she heard them. This was her curse. 

Nascha placed the large wooden spoon she’d been using into the ceramic holder on the stovetop, thinking once again how nice it was to have modern conveniences like electricity and gas to power her needs and keep a constant heat on her work. The ancient medicine woman who taught her this recipe while she’d still been living on the reservation had refused to cook it anywhere else but in a cauldron over an open fire. Maybe it ultimately changed the efficacy of the potion, not using the inherent energy of an open flame to create it, but Nascha was a modern witch. Modern witches innovated. After all, innovation was the only way she’d been able to survive off the reservation that had hidden her—and hurt her—for so long. She was pretty damn good at it all by now.

A soft electronic chimedrew Nascha’s attention away from her thoughts. She reached for her cell phone on the opposite counter as a notification alert popped up on the screen. The motion sensor on her front door had detected some type of movement. Clicking over to the video capture, she saw an old beat up pickup barreling down the driveway at a speed almost too high to take the curve into the clearing where her house sat. She didn’t recognize the vehicle, but whoever was driving clearly had an emergent purpose.

She watched a moment longer as a very hairy and muddy man jumped out of the truck, reached inside, and withdrew a dog. Well, that explained the rushing in on a Sunday afternoon. 

“Where’s Smoke?” Nascha asked Ash.

 _How should I know?_ Ash said.

“Will you please find him?”

Ash rolled over onto her back. If she had the ability to roll her eyes, she would have done that, too. _He’s probably watching_ Star Wars _again. Nerd._

“I have to sit with this for another minute or two,” Nascha said, motioning to the pot. She did not want to waste the ingredients she’d used by overcooking it. Getting the same ingredients would require a visit to a grocery store or the local occult shop; store-bought ingredients _never_ adequately replaced those she picked herself during her nightly exercises. “Please go see what’s wrong.”

 _I hate going out there,_ Ash responded. _Humans are all idiots._

“Ash…”

The cat stood up and stretched languidly, clearly unconcerned, like a senator at an impeachment trial.

Nascha grabbed the cat—carefully, of course—and set her on the ground. “I would like to remind you of our deal. I agree to feed you, catch small rodents for you, and let you sleep in a warm bed. In return you _occasionally_ help me out around the clinic.”

 _Yeah, yeah, yeah,_ Ash said, flicking her tail unhappily, but walking toward the door into the hallway. _And if I don’t, you’ll turn me into a human. Blech._

“And don’t you forget it!” Nascha called as the door swung shut, even though Ash knew it to be an empty threat. No one, magical or not, could change another creature into something else unless they were born with the genetic ability to do that. Ash was as feline as they came, and she would stay that way until she used all her nine lives.

Nascha returned to her cauldron, but in her argument with Ash, she’d neglected it too long. It was now splitting and congealing into a gelatinous black goo giving off a putrid smell, not unlike a dog’s breath with periodontal disease. Just like Ash had said. She sighed heavily. “Well, so much for that.”

She grumbled to herself and pulled the cauldron off the heat to cool down before she could clean it out and start over. Smoke finally appeared in a feathery flurry, landing on his perch.

 _There’s a guy outside with a dog,_ Smoke intoned, but then made a chirping noise not native to an African Grey.

Nascha looked at him, “I thought you were watching a movie?”

Smoke bobbed his head and clicked his tongue before speaking aloud, “Alexa turn TV off.”

The house became more silent and Nascha looked at her other housemate. “Go tell them to wait. Ash is already out there.”

 _Was it wise to send her out?_ Smoke asked.

Nascha shrugged. “I’ll be right there.”

Smoke, who was quite a bit more dutiful than Ash, unless his favorite TV shows were on, immediately soared out of the room to take care of business. Nascha washed her hands and checked her appearance in a tiny mirror before she reached the door that led into the surgery suite. Ash sat there flicking her tail, annoyed and waiting to give a report.

“So?”

_The idiot was attacked by a bear. Name’s Dodger._

“Thanks.” Nascha frowned, reaching for the waiting room door. A bear? Hardly looked like a bear attack from the video image. But he wasn’t the first patient to exaggerate how he’d been injured, and he wasn’t going to be the last. “Stay close in case I need you.”

Ash jumped onto the chair in the corner of the room and lifted her own paw to lick lightly. She didn’t care. And honestly, Ash wasn’t going to be much help anyway. Only the bipedal assistant that worked for Nascha Monday through Friday would be any help— seeing as it was Sunday, Nascha worked with what she had. Because she was innovative… not just as a witch, but as a veterinarian. Still, this emergency would be the first true test of her weekend “help.” She didn’t get a lot of emergencies out here in the middle of nowhere.

Nascha breathed in deeply and let it out as she opened the door to survey the situation before her. She swept her attention to the pathetic looking brown and white dog, the bloody rag around his paw, and the human male who looked completely beside himself. By way of introduction, she said, “I’m so sorry! I was in the middle of something that couldn’t be put down.”

The hairy, mud-caked man looked familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite place him. Even so, his spirit gave the room a frenetic energy like a geyser bubbling and about to blow. Everyone knew it was about to happen, could sense it, but it was the sickening anxiety and bated breath before the eruption that bothered her. She’d never felt it to this degree.

“My dog, he—”

She swooped into action, flicking her eyes down to Dodger. She hummed and reached for him. “Let me take him back and have a look.”

“Can’t I go back?” The man asked, reluctantly handing the dog over to her.

She cradled the dog to her chest; Dodger didn’t struggle as she spoke softly. “It’ll be okay, Dodger.”

Dodger looked up at her as he snuggled into her arms and said in the most delightful old-time Southern drawl, _How y’all know my name?_

“You look as white as a ghost,” Nascha said then to the man, ignoring the canine’s drawling voice. She got it. This dog very clearly meant a lot to the guy, but she had procedures. And her procedures included not giving someone a reason to call an institution when she started talking to animals. “You need to sit down and calm down. You’re not going to be any help to your dog _or_ to me if you’re freaking us both out during an exam. Let me look at the injury and stop any active bleeding. Then we’ll talk.”

Nascha did not wait for approval and swept back into the surgery where she set Dodger down on the metal exam table. “Dodger, what’s your human’s name?”

 _Chris_ , he responded, big brown eyes meeting hers. _Y’all really understand me, don’t ya?_

She chuckled. “Yes, I do. Now. Were you really attacked by a bear?”

Dodger whined and shifted just enough to hold out his injured paw. _It was terrible, Doc. He was fixin’ for a fight._

Nascha carefully unwrapped Dodger’s paw to find that the bleeding had stopped, and under all the mud, a long laceration across the side of the paw consistent with a tear of some kind originating from his dewclaw… but definitely not from a bear fang or claw. “If a bear had done this, you would have lost your paw.”

_I’m tellin’ y’all. A huge brown one!_

“Do I need to ask Chris?”

Dodger whined again. After some hesitation, he looked away and moaned forlornly. _Fine! A fish jumped and smacked me in the face. I fell._

Nascha laughed. “And?”

_I dunno. It happened when I fell off the rock into the river._

“Alright,” Nascha said. “Do you think it’s safe to call your human in?”

_Nah, I reckon he’s ‘bout as useful as a screen door on a submarine right now._

She couldn’t hold in her laughter at his expression. How had a Southern dog gotten all the way up here to Massachusetts? His owner did not have the same slow drawl. In fact, he’d sounded distinctly Bostonian in the few words they’d exchanged in the waiting room. “How about I get it all cleaned up and stapled, then call him in?”

_How can y’all understand me?_

Nascha did not have time to explain the ins and outs of her abilities. Though this wound was not life threatening, it did need attention sooner rather than later. “That’s not what I asked.”

“Um… excuse me?”

Both she and Dodger froze, turning their attention to the doorway. The door remained closed, but judging from the voice, he was directly on the other side of it. “Yes?”

“May I please see my dog?”

Nascha exchanged a look with Dodger, who then laid back on the table, resigned to not getting an answer right away. “If you promise not to pass out.”

“I can handle a little blood,” he remarked as he stepped into the room.

She noticed, quite suddenly, that he took up a lot of physical space. More than she had realized out in the waiting room. He wasn’t overly tall, but at least six foot, he was taller than her. His shoulders were broad and sturdy. And he _was_ a mess, covered in blood, mud and likely freezing. His brain, however, had not really noticed that last bit because he was so worried about his dog; she could still feel the turbulent energy rolling off him. He was _in_ shock, or pretty near to it; now it was a matter of two patients, rather than one.

“The good news is that he’s fine,” she said. “Bad news is that I need to do major clean up and staple his leg.”

“Nothing broken? He’ll be okay?”

She nodded. “He tore his skin, mostly. Once I get it cleaned up, I’ll have a better picture of everything, but it otherwise seems fine. I can do a radiograph if you would like to make sure nothing’s broken. But from palpating it, I don’t feel anything out of the ordinary. And Dodger didn’t complain.”

The man’s whole demeanor deflated. He crumpled onto the bench beside Ash, who had been as silent as a dormouse through the whole process. “Thank god. I thought—”

“I am also worried about you,” Nascha added, coming around the table to crouch down in front of him. She set a comforting hand on one of his he had rested on his knees, but instantly regretted the decision. Touching humans was always a risk for her. This was different, though. A different she couldn’t quite fathom. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it,” she replied, securing her hold on him. He turned his palm up, grasping her fingers like they were a tether to reality. She noted that his were mostly soft hands—office worker hands—but there was a degree of roughness there that suggested he might have hobbies that took him away from a desk. His fingers were long, the nails bitten but not to the extent that they were horrible to look at. As a matter of fact, they looked like very pleasing hands and she had the brief irrational thought that they probably took great care of whomever he loved.

She’d held a lot of hands in her time, but most of those were gnarled and old, at the end of their journey when their owners asked her for assistance. His, in contrast, were vital. Alive. There was nothing sick or dying about him. Freezing cold from the elements, yes, but strong and alive, nonetheless.

Nascha wanted to hold on longer, not least of all because she now felt his frenzied energy oozing into her skin and up her arm, curling and mixing with what was left from her last trip to Boston.

It had been too long since she’d fed. The exercise in the woods last night had taken too much out of what little she had left. And he… he was _potent_. 

She wanted to moan in delight as his energy began to fill the empty voids within her, but clamped her lips shut at the last second.

 _That_ would have been embarrassing.

The man released a shuddering breath and laugh-groaned when he looked down at himself, the tension releasing from his broad shoulders. Slowly, he turned his attention up to hers. Soft blue-gray eyes with the longest eyelashes blinked back at her. They were the kindest blue eyes she’d ever beheld. “I _am_ a little cold.”

She finally succeeded in pulling her hand out of his, severing the connection, reluctant to let go. It would have been so easy to hold on for longer. The consequences of that, though? She shuddered at the thought. She’d made a promise to herself a long time ago to never take without asking—or being asked—first. Technically, she’d already broken it.

“How about a blanket, a fire, and some coffee? That is, if you feel comfortable enough sitting in my living room while I work on Dodger.” 

Never mind that _she_ did not feel comfortable with his intrusion. Having someone around meant she had to watch what she said and what she did. It was a mental load she wasn’t prepared to handle. Still, the words had come tumbling freely from her lips. She silently hoped he would decline and instead go back to the regular waiting room.

He surprised her by saying, “I would love it.”

Nascha eased back up to her full height, doing a quick mental survey of her living quarters. Had she left anything out from her work earlier that would be too difficult to explain? The cauldron was definitely an issue, but it was close enough to Halloween. She could explain it away as experimenting on something for decorations or a Haunted House or something, though she never decorated for the holiday because she didn’t celebrate it.

“Good. Let me put Dodger in a kennel and I’ll get you set up,” she finally said as she turned back to the dog.

Dodger yipped at her. _I don’t need to be put away._

Nascha shook her head. “You’ll be fine for a little while, Dodger.”

 _No, I will not_.

“He’s fine,” the man, Chris, said through a shaky laugh. “He hides out in his kennel back home when he wants to get away from me.”

 _Yankee traitor,_ Dodger mumbled.

“Does he want to, uh, get away from you a lot?” Nascha asked by way of conversation.

She began to scoop the canine back into her arms, but Chris held out a hand to stop her. “I can carry him.”

Nascha picked up Dodger anyway. “I’m stronger than I look…follow me.”

She pushed her way out of the exam room and into the back work area of her home. The previous owner—also a veterinarian—had built this addition on long ago to house his country practice. It consisted of one exam room, one clean room for surgeries, and a small lab equipped for only the most basic of pathology tests. The stainless-steel kennels lined one wall of the lab.

“You have a nice little setup back here,” he said.

“Thanks,” she replied, not elaborating. She could say that the previous owner had given it to her as a gift, but then she’d have to explain why he had given it to her. And that would be impossible to explain without scaring the shit out of anyone. Even though Dodger’s owner had calmed down considerably since she had held his hand and siphoned off his frenzy, she did not want to create another problem that would bring the anxiety back.

She couldn’t be trusted to hold his hand again. Next time, she might not be able to let go.

Nascha turned her thoughts to the heavy animal in her arms. She cooed softly at Dodger as she placed the dog inside a clean kennel on top of a thin cushion. On top of him, she wrapped a large towel to help him conserve some warmth before she could get back. Dodger accepted her kindness by licking her wrist and letting out a heaving sigh. He didn’t say anything else.

“You’re sure he’ll be fine?” Chris asked as she closed the door.

“In two weeks, you won’t even know there was a problem,” she said. “Except for the hair that will still be growing back.”

“Okay,” he breathed out.

Nascha gave him a small smile that she hoped was comforting and set her hand on his back, in the middle of his flannel-covered shoulders. It was a familiar move she wouldn’t normally have made, but he seemed appreciative of it. Maybe she was, too, now that she could feel the hard sinew beneath the damp flannel covering his torso. Office worker hands or not, the man clearly did many physical things with his body.

“How about we get _you_ warm now?” she asked.

He nodded and shivered. It was enough of an answer for her, as she motioned for him to follow her down the hallway toward the living portion of the house.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait! Thank you for reading!

**Chapter 3**

A hand on Chris’ shoulder shook him awake. It took a few seconds to fully come to, but once he did, he immediately noted how dark the room was. The dying embers in the fireplace barely illuminated the silent woman hovering over him from her spot standing behind the couch. She smiled silently, like the Cheshire cat, and stood back while he tried to pull himself into a sitting position. However, a heavy Navajo blanket of woven rust red wool impeded his movement.

He remembered, vaguely, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders after Dr. Bird had shown him back into her house. Not only had it immediately warmed his shivering body, but any remaining tension in his muscles loosened. Somewhat—and almost deliriously—he remembered thinking that it felt like a hug. And not like any old hug. This was like a _mom_ hug. The type of hug his mom gave him every time he got on a plane for work, like she’d never see him again and wanted to fill him with all the love she possessed in case something happened.

It made him feel completely and utterly at peace.

So at peace, in fact, he’d passed out.

It was unlike him. He was always on alert, always dealing with the persistent worry rippling through his head. He took pills and did some hard core meditation to find this kind of relaxation at night, unless he was so physically exhausted he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Otherwise, he suffered extreme insomnia from the need to be on guard.

“Hi,” said the woman softly, her alto voice soothing.

Chris blinked a few more times, forcing himself to pay attention to the hypnotic black eyes that stared back at him. He finally succeeded in shifting to a sitting position, rubbing his face, waiting for the blood flow to return. He yawned. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I passed out like that. How long—”

“Three hours,” she replied.

“Why did you let me sleep?”

The strange, beautiful woman shrugged. “The storm blew in off the mountain and it wasn’t a good idea for you to leave when I finished with Dodger, so I let you sleep. I’m not surprised you fell asleep—you were pretty keyed up earlier. That takes a lot of energy out of you.”

“Where _is_ Dodger?”

On cue, the canine hobbled around the couch and limped over to him, awkwardly jumping into his lap. The bandage—purple in color—encased the paw and most of the leg. Dodger threw himself against Chris’ chest and released a long-suffering sigh. Chris hugged him close, burying his nose in the dog’s fur. He smelled terrible from the ordeal, but it still somehow smelled like Dodger, and that was all he wanted. Everything was right with the world.

“The leg will be fine, by the way,” Dr. Bird said, coming around the back of the couch and finding a seat on a lumpy armchair. She reached over and flicked on a lamp, flooding the room in light. “The staples need to come out in a few weeks, and he’ll take a course of antibiotics and have a pill for pain management.”

“So I freaked out over nothing?”

Dr. Bird shook her head. “It wasn’t nothing, and you did need to bring him in quickly. You’re just a concerned dog parent.”

“Do they teach you how to handle crazy people in veterinary school?” he asked.

She let out a whooping laugh. “I learned that particular skill on the job.”

Chris looked down at Dodger, who was half asleep. “He’s sleepy.”

“It’s the drugs. I gave him the good stuff,” Dr. Bird replied. “He’ll be a little drowsy when you give it to him, as needed. Also, you need to keep the bandage dry. Going back out to your campsite probably isn’t the best idea, especially as the nor’easter is finally here.”

“Nor’easter?” he asked.

She cocked her head to the side like an inquisitive bird. “The one they’ve been forecasting for the past three days?”

Because _of course_ something else would have to go wrong on this ill-fated camping trip. Clearly, he and Dodger were headed home after they got done here and packed up camp. The weather had been unusually cold and rainy since they made camp, but there hadn’t been anything in the forecast when they left Boston days before this.

 _No… wait._ Had he even looked at the forecast? If he did, he hadn’t paid attention as he hastily packed his gear and hightailed it out of town to get away from a nagging girlfriend.

“You mean to tell me you went out into the wilderness without having some way to check the weather?” she asked. “What kind of idiot does that?”

“This idiot, apparently,” he mused dryly. “Let’s just say I had other things on my mind when I left Boston. And people have been camping for eons in the middle of _blizzards_. This will just be a little cold rain.”

“Those people were _prepared_ for it, though. Did you bring gear for a nor’easter?”

Chris pursed his lips. “Well, no…”

“My point?”

“True.”

“I’m not letting you go tonight,” she said. “And I don’t mean that in a creepy psycho killer type way. I don’t want you to go out there and have something happen to you or Dodger. I like Dodger too much.”

He appreciated her no-nonsense attitude. Most strangers changed their entire demeanor around him, though it wasn’t always because of his celebrity. Sometimes it was simply because they thought he was a somewhat attractive guy. He was so tired of being forced to read the situation and between the lines to understand the other person he was talking to. It was utterly exhausting. She was a breath of fresh air. What’s more, he agreed with her. He usually liked Dodger better than himself most of the time, too.

“Normally, I would object, but I would appreciate it,” he said.

“Good,” she replied and stood up from the chair. “I don’t mean to be an ungrateful host, but you need a shower. You’re a mess.”

He lifted his arms and looked down at himself. Yep, nothing had changed since he’d arrived. Except the blood and mud had dried completely and began cracking and peeling off all over her couch. “Do you have something for me to wear?”

“I can find something,” she said. “Let me show you to the bathroom.”

Chris followed her obediently after moving Dodger to another couch cushion, wondering _why_ he was following behind her like this. He certainly liked meeting new people, though staying in a strange person’s home was something else altogether. Dr. Bird’s no-nonsense attitude or not, he’d seen enough horror movies to know it probably wasn’t wise to accept an invitation to stay in an isolated farmhouse in the middle of a nor’easter without any ability to contact the outside world. He didn’t even know where he put the keys to his truck—they were probably still in the ignition, but he couldn’t say for sure. No matter how upstanding she seemed as a veterinarian, he couldn’t ignore the fact that everything about this place was strange to him, from the cat receptionist to the hugging blanket.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as she stopped in front of a door down a long hallway.

“I was just thinking that this is a set up for some sort of horror movie,” he said. “You’re not going to fatten me up and eat me, are you?”

She threw her head back in laughter, but even with the mirth, he sensed a bit of tension in the tone of it. “I’m a terrible cook. So unless you can be fattened up with a frozen pizza, you’re in the clear.”

“Frozen pizza?” he asked.

“Pepperoni,” she said. “And a beer?”

He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until that moment, and his rumbling belly let them both know that. “Sounds amazing.”

“Good. Now, the towels are in the cupboard in the bathroom,” she explained. “Use any of the soaps. I’ll find some clothes and leave them out here by the door while I pull dinner together.”

“Thank you, Dr. Bird,” he said.

She grinned. “It’s Nascha.”

 _Nascha… Nay-shaw._ He repeated the name a few times in his head; he’d never heard a name like it. Somehow, though, it fit her. Strange and unique, like everything else he’d encountered.

“You can lock the door if you’re worried about me turning into Norman Bates,” she teased, nodding at the door and turning on her heels to head the other direction.

“I am locking it!” He called back, “But not because I think you’re going to murder me.”

Nascha laughed. “I’m not going to jump your bones, either. You’re safe.”

He couldn’t help but wonder, as he shut the door and flipped the lock, if he _was_ safe. But, surprisingly, the anxiety that would usually be clawing its way out, stayed locked in its cage.

—-

Nascha puttered around the kitchen, wondering what in the actual hell she was doing with a strange guy in her house. And not just any strange guy. A strange guy who was a very real temptation in so many ways. She could so easily reach out and take what she wanted from him. The energy and vitality coming off him was a beacon—a strong magnet—and resisting its pull was exhausting. It was too easy to slip; she barely held on during her daily clinic appointments with her clients. Spending a whole night alone with someone under her roof? That was another story entirely.

It wasn’t like she could just run off to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting when she felt the urge to consume. They didn’t have SEA—soul eater’s anonymous—even though she wasn’t technically one of those, anyway. The old medicine woman who took her in as an orphan was the closest thing she had to a sponsor, and she had long since departed her earthly existence. Since then, she’d hidden out here in the woods and made friends with the local community of the magically-minded, but their magic operated differently than hers.

And when someone must kill humans to survive, it tends to make that someone an outcast.

The other magical folk in this town were all perfectly capable of horrible outcomes in their own practices, but none of them were forced to take human lives just to live their own. Even though they accepted her into the community, they still regarded her with suspicion. There were no open arms here. Going to one of them for help would yield nothing but a cold shoulder.

Sometimes she wondered if staying on the reservation wouldn’t have been the better idea in the long run; at least there, she was an accepted part of the tribe. A feared part, sure, but still a part of it. And there were others like her.

_Nascha, the bear and his cub are here. I heard them arguing outside._

Nascha startled at the intrusion to her thoughts, popping her head up to look at Ash. The cat sat on the kitchen counter in front of her, flicking her fluffy tail in agitation. Nascha patted her pockets for her cell phone, wondering why the motion sensor hadn’t detected the new visitors, but it wasn’t on her.

 _See!_ Called the Southern-drawling dog from his spot on the couch on the other side of the large great room. _There was a bear!_

She certainly did _not_ need a visit from this bear, either. Not with her houseguest. The houseguest for whom she had not yet found clean clothes because she’d been so caught up stressing about him. 

Her front door burst open with a force too great for the wind. In stomped a boy of thirteen, dark shaggy hair hanging in his eyes and a curled, angry lip. The boy threw his backpack on the floor with a flourish that sent it skidding to a halt across the room against a wall. He kicked off his Vans and promptly went to the couches in front of the television. Once there, he threw himself down next to Dodger with an overly dramatic flop of teenage angst.

Then he said, “Alexa, turn television on.”

The television glowed to life.

“Nice to see you, too, Adam,” Nascha called out to him as she stepped from the kitchen into the living room, hands on her hips. “Where’s your dad?”

Adam didn’t bother to look at her. “Alexa, find Twitch.”

“Adam!” growled the new male voice at the front door. “Turn the damn television off.”

Adam ignored his father. Said father was a giant of six-foot-five and a wall of solid muscle with a mean look on his face and a gun on his hip; such a visage was nothing in the face of Adam’s bad attitude.

Adam’s father walked over to the television and pulled the electrical cord from the wall. Adam let out the most epic groan and rolled his eyes. He sounded like Gollum freaking out over Sam Gamgee’s cooking. “Just let me watch TV!”

“No. You need to do your Algebra homework!”

“When am I ever going to need that bullshit, anyway?!” Adam yelled.

Adam’s father took a step forward, his giant paws curling into fists. His square jaw tightened and a muscle just under the jagged scar by his left eye jumped. “You _will_ do your homework, or so help me, you won’t see the light of day until you turn forty.”

Dodger, who had been sitting silently on the couch, ungracefully stood and walked the short distance over to the teenager and laid across Adam’s lap, as though to protect him. Then Dodger said, _Aren’t you gonna do somethin’, Doc?_

Nascha sighed heavily. She hated stepping between these two in family arguments. It wasn’t her place, no matter how much both men tried to insert her into their lives. But it needed to be done and Erik needed to leave.

“Alright, you two,” she said, finally. “You both need to calm down.”

“He started it!” Adam exclaimed.

Nascha shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. “What’s going on, Erik?” she asked the father, whose face had turned purple with rage.

“The storm,” Erik grunted, waving his arm toward the open front door. “I have to go set up the command center because our new recruits can’t handle it, apparently.”

“Okay…”

She let the word fade as though she expected him to elaborate about how that involved her, but she knew what he meant. Since she’d moved into town, Erik had been the most welcoming and accepting of her peculiar magic. Some might even call him a friend, insomuch that he came around every so often to say hello, brought her venison steaks from his latest hunting trip, or helped her clean out the rain gutters. Sometimes he brought in injured wildlife he encountered, though all the park rangers and the other emergency services in the area usually did. Erik, however, stuck around for more than she was ever willing to give him, and it evolved into her occasionally being a place where he could leave Adam with an unpaid babysitter. She didn’t mind it, much. Adam was a fun kid when not in the throes of hormones.

What Nascha didn’t like about the whole situation was Adam’s mother—the feeling was mutual between both women—and Erik’s complete disregard for that fact. Or that, just maybe, she wasn’t able to be an emergency mom when Erik’s ex-wife was too busy to take care of their son. Nascha did not relish facing the wrath of Brenna when she found out that Adam had spent another night at her house.

“He needs to do his homework and then he needs to go to bed,” Erik replied. “Will you please see that this happ—who the fuck is _he_?”

Nascha frowned. Behind her, a rather… damp… man stood in the hallway with a towel wrapped around his trim hips. For a minute, her brain short-circuited as her eyes traveled down the sculpted muscle of his torso to the cut of his hips that disappeared into the towel. She knew he was built; all she had to do was look at him to understand that. She had not expected this, or the fact that her feminine interest would be so strong.

“It’s a long story,” she said.

“Sorry,” he said. “You didn’t leave the clothes out for me and…”

“No, I’m sorry,” Nascha said to Chris, stepping away from Erik toward her guest.

Erik grumbled. “Nascha?”

“Just give me a minute!” It came out more testy than she had hoped; Erik was the last person she wanted angry at her, but in her defense, she _was_ a little stressed and he’d just have to deal with it.

She scooted by Chris at the entrance to the hall, careful not to touch him, but would have been lying if she said she hadn’t readily inhaled the scent of cedarwood and sage that smelled heavenly on his clean skin. “I’ll bring you the clothes, you can wait in the bathroom.”

Chris nodded his head and turned to head down the same narrow hallway. He did so carelessly, his naked torso accidentally grazing her uncovered arm. Every hair on her body rose to attention, gooseflesh prickling her skin. The unforgiving sexual awareness tightened her breasts and her nipples pebbled into hard sensitive peaks against her bra.

This was the very last thing she needed.

She glanced to her side, seeing if he had any reaction, but he was already stepping back into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him. “Get your head on right, Nascha,” she muttered to herself. Focus. She needed to focus.

Inside one of her spare bedrooms was a trunk of old things she kept from the previous owner of the house; when the old doctor had asked her for her help and given her the house in repayment for it, he did so because he had no relationships with his family. Still, though, she had packed his clothes and personal belongings into some boxes and kept them in storage should someone show up one day.

It had been five years. No one had shown up.

Every time she thought about it, it made her morose. What was the point of suffering in this life if you didn’t have someone there at the end to mourn? Not that she’d ever have anyone like that, considering how her life had turned out, but it was still a shame for humans to not have a legacy.

She found an old cable knit sweater and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring at the waist that still smelled reasonably fresh in the depths of the third box she hastily dug through. Perfect for a few hours, at least, while she threw his other clothes in the wash.

The torn flannel was going in the trash, though.

When she emerged, she heard Erik and Adam arguing again. It was time for Erik to go. Adam usually always did what she asked, but that was because she had patience. True to Erik’s ursine nature, he was quick to anger and once there, it took him ages to calm down.

“Chris?” she asked when she neared the bathroom door. He thrust an arm out through a barely opened door. She handed over the garments and walked back to the living room.

“Adam,” she said softly, “did you have dinner?”

“No,” he replied.

She nodded. “Go put the oven on to 425, please.”

“Nae…” he moaned.

“Go!” She pointed in the direction of the kitchen. “And you,” she turned to Erik, “outside.”

She thought for a minute that Erik wasn’t going to comply, however, after a few seconds of hesitation, he followed her out onto the front porch.

When the door was shut, she turned to Erik. “I thought we talked about this, Erik! You have to call me first to see if it’s alright.”

“I did call!” he snarled. “You weren’t answering your cell.”

“I was a little busy,” she said.

“Clearly.”

Nascha scoffed. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Like I didn’t just see a naked guy walk out of the bathroom?” One of Erik’s dark eyebrows rose in challenge. This brow had one of the other prominent and jagged scars that adorned his otherwise handsome face. He always looked menacing when it lifted.

“He came in with an emergency. His dog fell in the river,” she said. “He went after the dog, he was covered in blood, and I told him to take a shower. And I’m forcing him to stay here tonight instead of going back to his campsite because of the storm.”

Erik regarded her for a silent moment that stretched too far to be entirely comfortable. “What campsite?”

“I don’t know, the dog didn’t say. But he swears there was a bear out there,” she said. “Were you out patrolling this afternoon?”

His nonreply was enough of an answer.

“Well, I guess I owe Dodger an apology.” There certainly may have been one there in the trees, but it still wasn’t the thing that had ultimately caused Dodger’s injury.

“You need to be careful, Nascha,” Erik said. “You don’t know this guy. He could be bad news.”

Nascha snorted and shook her head. “Good thing I can protect myself.”

The front door burst open again, this time with Adam rushing out and shutting the door behind him. He was dancing around wildly to get her attention, like he was about to burst from pent up energy. “Nascha! Nascha, Nascha, Nascha…”

“What is it _now_ , Adam?” she asked.

“The dude!”

“What dude?”

Adam gesticulated toward the door and inside the house. “ _That_ dude.”

“What did he do?” Erik growled, his hand on his gun holster in a millisecond, ready to take matters into his own hands. Never mind that he could rip any man limb from limb with little effort and bare hands.

“He didn’t do anything!” Adam said breathlessly. “Nascha, do you know who that _is_?”

Nascha pursed her lips, thinking for a moment. He had seemed familiar to her, but other than that—

He got close to her, leaning in to hiss-whisper, “That’s _Chris Evans_!”

“Who?” she asked. The name didn’t particularly ring a bell, but she supposed he was someone noteworthy out in the real world. Probably a Youtube gamer, if Adam knew him.

He was louder and exasperated. “Chris _Evans!_ ”

When that still didn’t elicit a reaction from her, he groaned and shoved his hands in his hair. This was clearly stressing him out. “What am I doing with all you old people?! I swear to god… you are useless!”

“Who is he?” Nascha asked calmly. She hadn’t realized that Erik had gone silent, and that the other man in question was now standing in the doorway; he was fresh, clean, and—this time—fully clothed. Pity, that.

With his hair slicked back, still damp from a shower, and really taking a good look at him, it hit her like a ton of bricks.

Well, _shit_.


End file.
